


The Mirror That Reflects It

by Defira



Series: In Her Light [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Child Soldiers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knights of the Fallen Empire, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is a prince turned general. She is a slave turned Jedi. He is a tool of conquest, she is a force of compassion. They have nothing in common.</p><p>They are more similar than they would imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mirror That Reflects It

He is born into privilege, and never allowed to forget it. What an honour it is, to be the heir to such a vast and mighty Empire; what a privilege it is to serve, and to have the opportunity to prove himself worthy of such a birthright. 

He is born in the midst of preparations for war, and his father looks to both he and his brother to be a figurehead in the years to come. Zakuul will be the centre of the galaxy in the decades to follow, and he will be responsible for ushering in a new era of prosperity and glory- and there is no such thing as too young for him to be aware of such a destiny.

It is a heavy weight for a child to bear, but he has known no life without it.

He is a prince, and it is his birthright.

_______

She is born into love, and it is a privilege to know it. What a joy it is, to be the delight of her parents both, who have given so much in their difficult existence to bring her into the world; what a privilege it is to feel safe, and to have the opportunity to find a path worthy of her.

She is born in the midst of a war, and her parents do all they can to ensure she is sheltered from the worst of it. Ryloth is never a prosperous planet, even in peacetime, and the Clan Council must make sacrifices for the good of the people, if they are to survive at all- and there is no such thing as too young for her to be aware of the burden she is. 

It is a heavy weight for a child to bear, but she has known no life without it.

She will become a slave, and it is expected.

_______

He is four, and he is a child. His age means nothing to his trainers and tutors, the distant men and women who prop him up on display for his father, who preen and posture for the Emperor’s attention. The war beyond their borders weakens the galaxy, and there is no time for play and whimsy, not when there is an Empire to be forged.

He wants to play, to run through the gardens of the palace with his brother and sister, to shriek and climb and roll in the grass; he is a spaceship, then a rancor, then a great force wielding knight. 

Instead he is cuffed over the back of the head for his inattention, and dragged back to the present. He is a prince, and there is no time for play.

_______

She is four, and she is a child. Her age means nothing to the slavers who bought her, the cruel men who dragged her screaming from her parents, who paid the Clan Council by the head for each able body they were allowed to take. The Mandalorians have the Hydian Way under fierce blockade, and if there are no supplies reaching the far more important Core Worlds, there are even less reaching the poverty stricken planets in the Outer Rim.

She wants to live, to stay with her parents and listen to her mother singing while she giggles and dances with her father, to do her chores and play with the other children in the dusty streets. 

Instead she is bound with a shock collar by her new owners, in an attempt to stop the screaming. She is a slave, and there is no time for kindness.

_______

He is eight, and he can fight off men three times his age. He and his brother try to stand back to back, facing out at the ring of assailants as they slowly advance, and he stands his ground. He is tired, his hands aching as his fingers grip desperately at the smooth hilt of the practice staff. He has blisters, and a split lip, and he has learned the hard way not to cry.

His father watches from above, detached and uninterested, a shadowy presence tugging at the edge of his awareness. Just enough to make him nervous, just enough to send a shiver of panic through his blood.

He cannot fail. 

So he keeps his feet under him, as the faceless men in masks attack him- twice his height and three times his age, and a dozen of them to face the two brothers. The Force is his shield, his weapon, his sanctuary. 

He fells them all, and he does not cry.

But his father does not care.

_______

She is eight, and she defies men three times her age, and more. She holds herself over the other children as their guardian, facing the foreman with his crackling electric whip, and stands her ground. She is tired, worked to exhaustion in the ryll mines as she clambers into spaces the miners cannot reach. She has bruises, and scars, and she has learned the hard way not to cry.

The other children cower behind her, broken and traumatized, smaller and weaker and looking to her for guidance. Just enough to give her strength, just enough to fire the anger in her blood.

She cannot fail.

So she keeps her feet under her, as the foreman screams obscenities at her again- twice her height and three times her age, at least, a bully with a lethal weapon defied by a little girl. The Force- though she has no name for it yet- is her shield, her weapon, her sanctuary.

The electric whip strikes, and she endures. 

But the children are safe for now.

_______

He is ten, and his brother’s laughter means the world to him. They whisper together in the darkness of their room at night, they stand back to back in the ring, and when Arcann struggles- when his temper gets the better of him and he falters- he is there to hold his hand patiently, a weight and an anchor to tether him to the world.

 _It’s a weakness_ , his trainers whisper, to rely so heavily on another. To invest so much of yourself in another. To trust, to _love_.

He loves his brother, his rival, despite their warnings. 

Their rings of statehood, proclaiming their place in the Empire, marks of status and rank- they swap them back and forth with impunity, a sign of their devotion to one another. He wears his brother’s ring more often than he wears his own, his fingers twisting it slowly on his hand whenever they are parted.

He is wearing his brother’s ring when they craft their first lightsaber together, the glow of the blade reflected in the rings. 

Together, they can conquer the world.

_______

She is ten, and the laughter of the other children means the world to her. They whisper together in the safety of the cargo bay, liberated at last from the mines by Jedi and Republic soldiers, and when the smaller children struggled to walk into the light, she stopped to hold their hands and guide them into the new world.

 _You have remarkable strength_ , a Jedi smiles as she crouches before her. To give so much of yourself in defense of others. To fight, to _love_. 

She loves the other children, despite the cost.

The slave collar is gone, but the scars around her neck remain- a reminder of all that she has endured, of what she is capable of surviving. She wears her mother’s headpiece, the metal tarnished and worn, the leather stained and filthy, but when they offer to take it away she refuses. It is too big for her, but it is all she has left.

She is wearing her mother’s headpiece when the Jedi holds out her hand and offers her something more, something better.

Together, they can save the world.

_______

He is twelve, and he is _terrified._

He is faster than his brother, stronger with a blade; he adapts to their lessons faster, and with greater tact and enthusiasm. Arcann’s temper gets the better of him too often, and his frustrations become harder and harder to hide. While he takes to languages with ease, and can grasp the quantum physics that make star travel a possibility, his brother struggles. Arcann is strong, but his patience is short. For years now, he has calmed his brother’s rages, and walked him through their lessons once the tutors have gone for the day.

Whatever Arcann is unable to grasp, he helps him to hide it. 

When their father learns of their deception, he is not frightened for himself- he is frightened for his brother. They are dragged before him like the errant children that they are, disappointments both, and their father’s silence is agonizing. 

They stand like two little soldiers- for that is what they are, are they not?- and he can see Arcann shaking out of the corner of his eye. Is it rage? Is it fear? Is his control about to break?

“It was my idea,” he blurts into the silence, youthful voice cracking. He cannot bring himself to look up. “It was my fault, not his.”

The unspoken ‘ _do not hurt him_ ’ hangs in the air, pathetic and jagged and desperate.

The silence deepens, lengthens; he does not cry, for he has learned not to cry, but his eyes burn all the same. A rustle of fabric, the creak of leathers, and he knows their father is standing. 

“I do not abide weakness.”

Panic swells in him, desperation. “Father, it was-”

“You simper and grovel for another like a starving dog.” His father’s words lash against him like a whip. “You allow a parasite to grow in your side, and beg me to ignore how it weakens you.”

A shadow falls across him, and he dares not look up. “You are both pathetic,” their father says flatly, no emotion as he addresses them. “You will be separated. For the next year, you will live and train alone.”

His father has already called him weak, so it makes no difference when he weeps and screams as Arcann is led away from him.

_______

She is twelve, and she is _terrified_.

The temple shudders with the ongoing barrages, and in the distance, the crackle and snarl of opposing lightsabers locked in battle echoes through the hallways. She is not the fastest padawan, nor is she strongest with her bladework; some say she has come to the Order too late, too old, and her lessons take place with the much younger children. The meditations she takes to with ease, and with her superior memory she relishes the lessons spent in the archives and the library. Languages, history, diplomacy- these she delights in, but her years of hard slavery have taken a toll on her young body, and she struggles with her physical training. For years now, she has sought to embody the ideal warrior, at peace with herself even as the galaxy is at war.

Now the war has come to Coruscant, and she helps the younglings to hide.

When the sith assassins stalk deeper into the temple, she is not afraid for herself- she is frightened for the children, the younglings barely old enough to dress themselves without assistance. She bars the door and stands with shaking hands, a stolen lightsaber humming in her grasp. 

She stands like a little soldier- for that is what she is, now- and she can hear the younglings crying behind the door, and she hushes them desperately. The shadows twitch at the end of the hallways. 

“I know you’re there,” she blurts into the silence, the crack of collapsing buildings and chemical infernos hissing through the night. She looks frantically from one direction to the other. “Come out and face me.”

The unspoken ‘ _do not hurt the younglings_ ’ hangs in the air, pathetic and jagged and desperate.

The threat of violence deepens, thickens; she does not cry as the light ripples in the corridor, the fires bouncing off the cloaking field of the sith murderers. A rustle of fabric, a creak of leathers, and she knows in her heart when to raise the lightsaber to block the blow that would have felled her.

“The Sith would never abide such weakness.”

The words are a hiss, a giggle, violent, and she nearly panics. “The Sith will never have me-”

“The Sith have killed your masters, little wretch, and bathed in their blood.” She can see it now, the black robe sliding out of reach, the hint of twisted features illuminated by the red glow of the saber. “You are a parasite on the face of the galaxy, an Order of simpering cowards and alien half-breeds.”

The shadow falls away, and the assassin stands uncloaked before her. “You are pathetic,” he says triumphantly. “You are-”

He has already called her weak, and so he does not expect it when she lunges clumsily, the saber pressing through his chest. It surprises her, how easy it is to take a life, how little resistance the blade finds. She screams as she kills him, sobbing before his body even hits the ground.

_______

He is eighteen, and he is a Prince. His father is impatient to begin their expansion, and so no longer is he kept sheltered behind the walls of the palace.

He is to be a General, a Field Marshal, and he must prove himself worthy to lead their armies. Arcann stands at his side again, his equal, his brother, his dearest friend. 

His rival. 

They take their first planet within a year.

_______

She is eighteen, and she is a Padawan. Their ranks are thin after the losses on Coruscant, and the Masters are impatient to rebuild, and so no longer is she allowed to guide and guard the children, sheltered in the quiet groves of Tython.

She is to be a Knight, eventually, and she must prove herself worthy to lead and to follow, to protect and to conquer. The Masters prompt her gently, her teachers, her guardians.

Her keepers.

She refuses to take another life, and she holds that promise for a year.

_______

He is twenty-two, and he has taken enough lives to empty a planet. The quiet, darker regions of space burn beneath their march, and the Republic and the Sith Empire are too caught up in their own squabbles to feel the ripples of their approach.

Each new world falls into line in time, in quiet supplication to a superior force or in burning defiance to the last man. He feels it all, the ebb and flow of the Force, the surging seething hunger that comes with violence, and the gentle numbing calm that comes with peace. With surrender. He can feel the wild highs and lows that Arcann succumbs to, tugging at him like a fast flowing river, luring him under, but he holds firm. 

This should be a sign of victory for him, but for their father, it is merely a training exercise. A formality to observe- because of course they needed to conquer their neighbours before they could move on to the bickering, weakening galaxy. And he is a fool, such a painfully, _stupid_ fool, to imagine that his efforts could ever be seen as anything more than lacklustre. 

The galaxy begins to fall, and he is still not enough. 

The list of his failings is never ending, and he sits numb and quiet through each conference with his father. He has no defense, no reason to argue in his own favour. He has been given explicitly clear goals, without compromise, and his failure to achieve them is his own. 

Arcann does not take to such lectures with the same quiet shame that he does. With their Empire growing, his irrational moods grow worse, swinging from violent confidence to moody depression with ease. 

He loves his brother, but he is growing to fear him. 

He finds himself keeping his own counsel, more often than not, and twists his brother’s ring around on his finger until the skin breaks.

_______

She is twenty-two, and she has felt what it is to die sixteen million times over. Uphrades burns, the final victim in Darth Angral’s perverted crusade for vengeance, and she feels every single death as the Force seeths and reels against the tragedy.

The atmosphere burns, the ocean boil, and she feels every moment of agony, every searing sweep of flame over her skin, every lungful of air only drawing the fire deeper into her flesh. From a great distance, she hears Kira calling to her in a panic; she feels the gentle ripple in the Force as her dead master approaches, but it’s not enough.

This should have been her death, this should have been her burden to carry- Angral’s argument was with her, and should have stayed with her. And she is alive, so painfully, _horrifyingly_ alive, and she cannot escape the spiritual bombardment of death and hate on such a scale. 

Uphrades dies, and she is ashamed to live. 

The judicial hearings into the tragedy take months, and she sits numb and quiet through it all. She has no defense, no reason to argue in her own favour. How can she give voice to such monstrosity, when she herself is still raw from it?

Coruscant does not let the matter lie quietly. With Uphrades gone, the overburdened capital planet starves, and the dead pile up in the lower quarters while the riots begin.

She loves the Republic, but she has failed them.

She finds herself quietly following the gentle guidance of the Jedi Council, more often than not, and wears her mother’s headpiece instead of a war helmet.

_______

He is twenty-four, and he has learned to mask his use of the Force. His father is a man of exquisite control, while his brother and sister lash and lunge with all the untamed fury of a hurricane. He feels the darkness to which Arcann sinks, and it dismays him.

He blocks himself off, and does not succumb to the Dark.

He is a killer, a weapon, an extension of his father’s ambition. He does not lie to himself and hope that there is something in him that might be considered good. He was never intended to be good.

That does not mean he will allow himself to be mindless with rage- and so he walls himself off, cold and quiet and efficient, and he loves his brother. His mastery of the Force is all but unrivalled, but he does not wield it with passion, as his siblings do. It is a tool, just like him. 

War is coming, and he does not allow himself to feel.

_______

She is twenty-four, and her every defense in the Force has been stripped away. The Sith Emperor is barely a man anymore, a creature of untold hatred and evil, with all the relentless destructive power of a black hole. She feels the darkness drag her down, and it terrifies her.

She blacks out, and does not succumb to the Dark.

She is a guardian, a protector, an extension of the will of the Force. She is also mortal, and she does not pretend that she can withstand the hunger of a tyrant who has absorbed the very life force of entire planets. 

That does not mean she will allow herself to be forcibly remade- and so she retreats into herself, warm and soft and quiet, and she refuses to become Sith. Her mastery of the Force is hardly noteworthy, but she embodies love and kindness and compassion. The anathema of the Sith.

War is coming, and she does not allow herself to fall.

_______

He is twenty-five, and it is _time_.

_______

She is twenty-five, and she is _tired_.

_______

He is a Prince, a General, and his presence strikes fear on battlefields across the galaxy. The Republic crumbles and the Sith fall, and their march across the stars is unstoppable. Weakened from their incessant squabbling over the last fifty years, neither are fit to stand against the might of the Eternal Empire.

He kills the generals, the captains, the leaders. The population of each planet falls in line with no one to guide them towards petty rebellion. When he encounters those whose names have become legend, he does his best to incapacitate them, and take them as a gift for his father. There is nothing quite so demoralizing for his opponents than to see their champions laid so low.

 _Here are your heroes_ , he thinks, _they are naught but ornaments for us_. 

They are never quite as grand as he imagines them to be- they are, if anything, painfully mortal, and hardly a challenge for one such as he. 

The Hero of Tython, the Woman who would have slain Vitiate, is no different.

_______

She is a Jedi, a Guardian, and her presence brings desperate relief on battlefields across the galaxy. She has faced the Vengeful Angral, the Immortal Vitiate, the False Revan, and she still stands untouched. But it has been years without reprieve, exhausted by the ever escalating horrors she must face, and she has not the strength to stand against the unending forces of the Eternal Empire.

She defends civilians, cities, planets. The population of each world is given the choice to evacuate or fight, and she respects each choice as it is made. When she encounters those whose loyalties lie with the Sith Empire, she does her best to work alongside them, and reinforce their defences. There is nothing quite so heartening for both camps to see their leaders working in tandem against a common enemy. 

_Here is our chance for peace_ , she thinks, and it comes on the tides of war. 

The end does not take her by surprise, as she had hoped- it is, if anything, painfully obvious that the day is lost, and she makes her stand as always in defence of others. Emperor Valkorion’s sons have taken to the field, and there can be no victory with such men against them. 

She gives their soldiers time to flee.

She stands between a bully far stronger than herself, and those who have not the strength to defend themselves.

Just as she always has.

She fights, she is exhausted, lightsabers hissing past her skin ever closer, and each blow is harder to block, each time she’s slower to parry, she cannot keep track of the two of them, they blur together in front of her eyes, the crackle of lightsabers, the seething surge of the Force as all three grasp and pull it to suit their will, she aches, she burns, she is so exhausted, her foot slides out from under her-

She thinks she hears Kira scream, dearest sister of her heart, and then-

_______

It has taken almost a year of open warfare, and he knows he has lost his brother. The wound in Arcann’s soul festers far more than the injuries he has sustained on the battlefield ever could, and though he nursed him through maiming on the red sands of Korriban that should have killed him, he cannot heal the rage burning through him.

The end does not take him by surprise, because he had long planned for this- if anything, it is wretched how easily it comes to pass. Their father’s dismissal of their achievements stings, but is expected. So too is Arcann’s reaction.

He loves his brother.

He has always stood between them, because he is stronger, faster, smarter, _better_. Yet his weakness has and always will be his brother, his rival, his desire to protect him.

Just as he always has.

He stands, he is calm, Arcann soaring through the air, their father with his back turned unconcerned, and he reaches for the calm and the quiet of his power and he _wrenches_ backwards, Arcann’s rage is under his skin and burning at his bones, the seething surge of the Force as he tries to stand firm against Arcann’s plummet into the abyss, he is calm, he is quiet, he is desperate to protect his brother-

He is surprised by how little it hurts, to die, and his brother has no rival now, and then-

_______

\- it _hurts_ to wake, and she does not want to, she wants to keep sleeping. It is, however, rather hard to sleep when your legs give out from under you, and she had not even realized she was standing to begin with.

She is cold, and vaguely numb, and she can hear someone speaking as if underwater. There are hands on her, gentle and coaxing, and she tries to blink but only finds darkness. And the floor, she finds that in short order too. 

“-steady, steady.” The words pierce the bewildering fog around her, muted and distant, but clear at last. “You’re alright.”

She is dizzy, violently so, and she is exhausted, battered and bruised as if she has just fought in a-

\- _battle_.

Her memories come flooding back and she claws for the hands trying to soothe her, moaning. “You’re alright, you’re safe.” That voice, soft and precise, she recognises that voice. “The hibernation sickness should hopefully wear off shortly- you’ve been asleep a very long time.”

“Lana,” she rasps, reaching blindly for her. 

“The very same.” She remembers blonde hair, pale skin. The cold power of a Sith Lord who instead reached out in the name of good. “It’s good to see you, strange as that may be.”

“I _can’t_ see.”

“Touching as this little reunion is,” comes a second voice, and this one she does _not_ recognise, accent thick like a chiss, “but we’re gonna have to get a move on if we want to get out of here in one piece.”

“I can’t _see_ ,” she says again, irritation making her tone sharp. 

“It’s alright,” Lana says, her hand smoothing over her shoulder, a gesture of familiarity that she had not remembered them sharing. “We’re going to get you to safety.”

She does not even know where she _is_ to need a flight to safety in the first place. There are holes in her memory that make her head ache. Hands urge her upwards and she feels so frustratingly weak, grasping desperately for these gracious saviours who have dragged her from her awkward slumber.

_How long has she been gone?_

She stumbles along with them, the world a murky darkness of muted greys and deeper blacks. They hurry her with pinching fingers and held breath, dragging her sideways presumably when they risk discovery. She still does not know where _here_ is.

What she _does_ know is that she still has faith in the Force, and she knows when to listen.

It flares to life within her, the urgent _knowing_ that cannot easily be described in words. She knows when she is being prompted by forces beyond her understanding, when the living Force reaches through her and uses her to its own mysterious purpose. Sometimes it is subtle, an inkling that others might call a sixth sense or a gut instinct; other times, like now, it is a beacon in the darkness, a siren’s song sinking into her skin that she is helpless to resist.

“Stop,” she whispers, and her rescuers stumble to a halt with her.

“What’s wrong?” Lana’s tone is urgent, stressed; she is _frightened_.

That ought to frighten her too, but the call within her is too insistent. “Down there,” she says hoarsely, trusting in the guidance of the Force that she is not pointing at a blank wall. “There’s someone down there.”

Silence greets her words, and she can almost feel the way her rescuers glance at each other in quiet argument. “And what does that someone need?” Lana says cautiously.

She focuses, and she listens. “They’re dying.”

_______

\- it _hurts_ to wake, and he does not want to, he wants to keep sleeping. It is, however, rather hard to sleep when your stomach burns so fiercely that it’s a struggle to draw breath, and he had not even realised he was breathing to begin with.

He is warm, and vaguely uncomfortable, and he can hear the beep of a droid and the distant hum of engines. There’s a bed beneath him, firm and practical, and he blinks and winces against the sudden onset of the light. And he has company, he finds that in short order too. 

“Good afternoon, your Highness.” The words pierce the bewildering fog that has followed him from sleep, and he blinks again until his vision clears. “It’s good to see you awake.”

He is drowsy, surprisingly so, and his limbs are all heavy and aching and hot as if he had just recovered from some great illness or-

\- _injury_.

His memories come flooding back and for a moment he _can’t_ breathe, his torso on fire as he remembers the heat of the lightsaber in his gut. “You’re alright, you’re alive.” There is movement from the corner of his eye and a figure leans over him. “Breathe, your Highness, don’t rush yourself. You’ve survived a traumatic injury, and you’re doing well to be awake so soon.”

“Who...?” he rasps, willing his eyes to focus.

“My name is Ona’la.” Rich blue skin fills his vision, and a pair of purple eyes. The name conjures memories of a warrior but her voice is soft and her expression is gentle. “Just relax, you’re safe.”

“I can’t breathe.”

Her hand is on the bare skin of his chest a moment later, and her touch spreads warmth down through the muscles locked in spasm. “Yes you can,” she says gently, “just little breaths to start with- in and out, in and-”

“I can’t _breathe_ ,” he says again, hysteria creeping into his tone.

“Yes, you _can_ ,” she says, just as firmly, her hand smoothing flat over his ribs, a gesture of familiarity that startles him. “In and out, in and out, just like me. Breathe with me, Thexan.”

There is a sharp pinch in his arm, and his head rolls to the side to see a medical droid, syringe discreetly withdrawing from his flesh. Already he feels the numbing sensation take away the worst of the pain, and as she soothes him quietly with her words and her touch, he feels control returning to him.

“How have I come to this place?”

He did not realise he had spoken aloud until she answers him. “You are in private medical quarters aboard a Republic starcruiser,” she says quietly. “The Emperor- your Emperor, not the Sith Emperor- has declared you dead, and a traitor.”

He closes his eyes, the words hurting far more than he cares to admit.

“They say you struck out against your father, and your brother defended him.” She pauses, waits for his input; her hand is still on his chest. “Is it true?”

He has nothing, no reason to be here, no reason to live; he loved his brother and gave his life for his brother and yet he is still here, his sacrifice a mockery. 

“Yes,” he whispers, and he hears her breathing falter for a moment.

“What’s wrong?” Ona’la’s tone is quiet, sorrowful; she is _sympathetic_.

That ought to soothe him, but instead it frightens him. “I am a mistake,” he says hoarsely, wishing she would take her hand away; it makes him feel too human. “You should have left me where you found me.”

Silence greets his words, and he does not want to open his eyes to see the compassion undoubtedly waiting in her own. “In a kolto tank, unconscious and forgotten?” Ona’la asks quietly.

He shudders, and he gives up. “I should have died.”

But then her fingers, her hand, her palm is warm against his cheek, and his eyes snap open in alarm. “You are not dead yet,” she says, with an intensity that finally gives him a glimpse into the Woman Who Defied Vitiate. “And neither am I. I lost four months of my life, and you have gained them back.”

He takes a shuddering breath. “ _Don’t_ ,” he says sharply, “touch me.”

Her hand falls away immediately, without further prompting. He misses the warmth she brought with her. “You have been given a second chance, to undo the damage your family has inflicted on the innocent people of this galaxy.” The fire is there now, the steel wrapped in the deceptive cover of kindness and compassion. “If you have truly defied your father, then you must know-”

“You have no idea what I _know_ , Master Jedi,” he says flatly. He cannot bring himself to look at her- he blames exhaustion, the coward’s path- so he stares at the roof instead, unconsciousness tugging at him anew. “Do not presume that your momentary lapse of judgement that you call mercy will suddenly endear you and your cause to me.”

She is silent, and he wonders if he has hurt her. She is strong, but she is _good_ , and it is a weakness- it is why her Jedi Order fell, it is why her precious Republic fell.

It is why he fell. 

“If you do not aid us, Thexan,” she says quietly, and he hates the way she says his name like an intimacy, like they are dear friends, “then you will be imprisoned at best. At worst...”

She does not need to finish the statement. “I should have died anyway,” he says, “so you have simply delayed the process.”

She does not answer before she leaves.

And he wishes she did not wear white like his brother.


End file.
